Of the fourth who slept in that lonely hillside cemetery she said not a word. The young life had come into being, and had passed away again, there, in this desert spot, amidst the trackless wastes of ocean, unknown to any save the two whose souls it had for ever linked indissolubly. Why should the world be told? The island would keep her secret; and no one in France should ever learn that her child and Claude's lay at rest in his father's grave.
She kneeled and kissed the stones which marked the spot; and then, without one backward look, she followed La Pommeraye to the hut.
There was little to take with her--the bearskin rug which had been her salvation through the bitter winter, and one or two precious personal trifles which were all that were left of her dead. La Pommeraye's heart was bursting within him as he saw how she had lived, and guessed what she must have endured. In silence they went down to the shore.
"Poor François!" Marguerite said, throwing her arms about the neck of the faithful beast. "Poor François!" and there was a world of meaning in her tone.
Soon they were ready to leave the island; and the wondering sailors, who knew nothing of her story--for Etienne had kept a sacred silence--shuddered as she stepped into the boat.
When the bear saw his mistress deserting him he leaped into the water, and tried to swim after her. Becoming wearied with the effort, however, he was obliged to give it up and swim back to the shore, where he paced up and down the beach with his rolling, awkward gait, his eyes fixed on the retreating boat.
As the ship sailed away, the sailors could see his white form standing in melancholy solitude on the highest point of the cliff. When the vessel was but a speck in the distance, he turned his eyes shoreward, and saw a seal basking in the sun. Stealthily he crept down the cliff and along the shore, his huge claws sank into the neck of the unsuspecting beast, and with savage delight he tore it in pieces.
As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had but one thought--to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. But before he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty to perform to the merchants of St Malo who had fitted out his little ship. The course was changed, the vessel's bow turned westward, and after a few days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of the great gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose huts clustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of that rugged spot. Runners were sent out to the surrounding Indian villages, and in a few days his vessel was almost sunk to the decks with a rich cargo of furs.